The Stills

The August heat clung to the air like a damp cloth, pressing the scent of baking hay and wildflowers into the lane that led to Aunt Miriam’s cottage. My little brother, Leo, was eight and full of restless energy, while our cousins, twins Maya and Sam, were twelve and forever inventing games that ended in someone crying. I was fourteen, old enough to be drafted into their schemes but too young to refuse.

The game was hide-and-seek, of course. It was always hide-and-seek when the fields behind the cottage offered a hundred hiding spots among the rustling corn and the tangled hedgerows. Leo counted, his voice high and reedy as he shouted numbers into the shimmering heat. I didn’t bother to hide. Instead, I found a spot on the stone wall that bordered the orchard, where I could see the whole garden and the edge of the woods beyond. From there, I watched the others scatter like startled birds.

When Leo reached one hundred, the silence that followed was heavy. I spied a flash of white between the apple trees and assumed it was Sam’s t-shirt. Without thinking, I slipped off the wall and jogged toward the grove, calling Sam’s name. The white shape moved deeper, weaving through the shadows of the old oaks that marked the boundary of the property. I followed, my sandals crunching on dry leaves, my breath quickening as the light dimmed.

At the heart of the grove, where the trees grew so close that the branches interlocked like clasped hands, I came to a stop. The figure that turned to face me was not Sam. It was taller than any adult I knew, and its white dress hung limp and still, as if untouched by wind. The hair was long and pale, almost silver, and fell over the face like a veil. But the eyes were visible—dark, empty pools that seemed to hold a terrible recognition. It smiled, a slow, wide smile that stretched the pale skin of the cheeks, and I felt my blood turn to ice.

I tried to speak, but my throat closed. For what felt like an eternity—though the sun barely moved—we stood frozen, the woman and I. Her lips parted, and I saw a darkness inside her mouth, but no sound escaped. She took a step forward, her bare feet making no noise on the forest floor, and raised a hand. I flinched, expecting cold, but her fingers hovered inches from my cheek, trembling, as if she fought a compulsion. Then, with a sigh that sounded like the rustle of dead leaves, she faded, like mist burning off at dawn.

I stumbled back, my heart hammering. I found my cousins huddled by the compost heap, and Leo emerged from behind the shed, all of them giggling at my pale face. I said nothing. That night, over supper, I couldn’t shake the image of that smile. Aunt Miriam, our great-aunt, had lived in the cottage since the 1930s, and she was a repository of local lore. After the others went to bed, I approached her as she peeled apples by the stove, the firelight carving deep lines in her face.

‘Aunt Miriam,’ I began, my voice shaky, ‘who was the woman in the white dress? The one in the woods?’

The knife stopped mid-stroke. Aunt Miriam’s eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something—fear? Sorrow? Then she set the apple down and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘That would be Eleanor,’ she said softly. ‘My sister. She’s been waiting for you.’ I opened my mouth to ask more, but she raised a hand. ‘She died on the night of her wedding, 1934. She went into the wood to calm her nerves and never came back. They found her at the deep corner, her dress snagged on the roots, her eyes open and staring at the sky. They said she was smiling. She’s been restless ever since, waiting for someone to see her. Someone to let her go.’

I stayed silent, my mind reeling. I had seen a ghost, but this was different. This was a soul trapped by something unfinished, a story that had ended in silence. I went to my room and lay awake, listening to the creaks of the old house. In the darkness, I could still see her face, the smile that was not a smile. I knew I would dream of her, and I knew that in my dreams, she would speak at last. Whether it would be a thank-you or a warning, I couldn’t tell. But in the quiet of that night, I heard the rustle of leaves outside my window, and I swear I saw a white figure glide past the glass, pausing just long enough to press a palm against the pane—a touch that left a faint smear, like the residue of a forgotten tear.